


With You

by helenagray



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Wish Fulfillment, alternative ending for 8x04 and beyond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenagray/pseuds/helenagray
Summary: An alternative ending to 8x04 and onward. Brienne tells our precious, stupid, wonderful boy how it is, and that,nope,he's not leaving without her. Wish fulfillment. My heart and soul demand it.* * * * *





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up today thinking about this, and could not get it out of my head. _Had to_ write it out. 
> 
> I don't think I'll be able to leave this as a one-shot. I want this outcome way too much. ;) I don't know about timing, though. It may be a week or two before I write more. 
> 
> * * * * *

“I’m going with you.” 

He sighed — a fight it would be, then. He turned form his horse to look at her. Her arms were wrapped tightly about her chest — she was freezing, he could tell; the black cloak a weak layer against the northern winter night. Her hair fell forward around her face, softening her. It was the way she looked in the morning, every time he’d woken up next to her; and he swallowed hard, recalling how she’d take to pushing it back into place, sitting up in their bed, preparing to get up, and how he’d grab her hands sometimes, one and then the other — push them down, and then playfully muff her hair back to disheveled. It was the look she had upon waking and also after they made love, and he adored it — her, disarmed, and his. _It only weakened him now._

He turned back to his courser, busying at the straps of the saddle. “You can’t. You’re sworn to Sansa Stark. Are you going to break your vow?” _How easy it was, to slip into a mocking tone, on the subject of a vow._

He could see her brow furrowing, out of the corner of his eye. “I will ask for her leave. And Pod can stand for me in my absence.” 

“No. What more must I say? You _can’t_ come with me.” 

“I won’t let you run off to your death, Jaime. I won’t. Let me help you. Please.”

Her voice cracked, and he imagined she would cry now. Crying he could make sense of. Not that it would make the leaving any easier, but this part where she was insisting she should be with him, should face the horrors of King’s Landing with him, even if she didn’t know, as he did, what that would look like, was much harder to riddle out. 

How could he explain to her, that this was his fate? That he didn’t get to choose. That he wasn’t free — not really. 

She was supposed to be sleeping, still. Ignorant of his plans. Then she could wake up, discover his betrayal, and be angry with him — hate him. Curse his name for the rest of her days. _He’d deflowered her, claimed her as his in every way but one, and then he’d up and left her, like the hateful, cruel person he was._

Instead she was standing here, trying to treat with him, looking at him — through him — and not angry. Not in the right way, at least.

And — she had known, hadn’t she? Maybe even before he did. She’d figured it out, well before tonight, that he would go back to King’s Landing. _Damn her._

She drew closer to him then, put her hands on his face, forced him to look at her. He watched a tear spill over, slide down her cheek, but she did not break. 

“Tell me,” she said, pleading. “Tell me why you are doing this. Why you insist you must go alone.”

She might not have broken, but he nearly did, staring at her eyes. He tried not to look away — he had to be strong, resolute — but it was too much. No one had ever looked at him as she did. No one had ever loved him like she did. He stared at her lips instead, but that was no better, when only hours earlier he’d been kissing them hard, knowing as he did then, that it would be his last time with her. He grabbed at her right hand with his left, meaning to pull it away, but he faltered the moment he touched her. Ended up rubbing her hand instead — wanting to pull it to his chest, and then the rest of her. 

_No._

“You know why,” he said, forcing his hand to fall away. Her eyes still tore at him, stabbing firmly at his heart, even as he tried to look above or below them. He swallowed hard. “I have to get back to Cersei. I have to be with her.” 

Had he managed harshness? Even a shade of the cruel tone of old? 

He watched another tear fall, and he thought he’d done it now, that she was about to pull away. And he fought against the part of him that didn’t want to let her, because _she had to stay here._ He wasn’t going to let her follow him into hell — his hell. 

But then, she stepped in even closer, putting her body a few inches away instead of an arm’s length — and she drew her face close to his, f _orced him_ to look her in the eyes, fully. _Would not suffer him to look away._

“I don’t believe you,” she said, her hands firm (but still gentle somehow) on his face, her eyes an impossible cerulean. 

He closed his eyes — it was his only escape — and tried to push her away. It was half-hearted — as much as _he had to do it,_ he couldn’t; not really. And she knew. _Damn her to hell and back_ — she knew. He was paper-thin, practically translucent to her, and he felt stupid in the way that men do when they are forced to accede the exquisite _knowing_ of women. _Men could fight and fuck and eat and drink, but so few of them could think._ Brienne could do all of it besides, and she _knew_ him — who he was and who he had been; who he _could_ be. 

He should have never been with her — he should have just let her be. But as much as he cursed her deep knowing of him, her eyes staring into his fucking soul, what could have ever been more alluring, more inviting, more poignant, than the love of someone who knew him — heart, body and soul? What could he have wanted more than the love of someone who had fought beside him, defended him, bled with him, been pulled through filth and shit and all the horrors of the world with him? 

He should have died in the Long Night. A good death, defending the living, honoring his vow. Then she could have mourned him and moved on with her life. 

_I don’t believe you…_

He heard it now in his own voice. It had been the last thing he said to Cersei, before he left for the north. And she had responded by urging the Mountain forward, one shade away from making good on her promise to end him. He could do the same now, too, couldn’t he? Cersei was him, he was her — that cruelty ran through his veins, too. 

_I don’t love you… I don’t love you like I love her…_

The words were there, playing in his head in Cersei’s calculated timbre, and he tried them on. Tried to channel her bitterness — her contempt. He opened his mouth, a sword ready to sever his other hand, and he told himself he was hateful and cruel, that his life had been over, long ago, that she would be better off — but then he looked at her _looking_ at him — her steady, glowing, watery eyes, the utterly pure and absolute love that emanated from their depths — and all he got out was _“I…”_ before his voice failed him completely.

In his muteness, Brienne was as full of speech as ever. 

“I won’t let you throw your life away, Jaime. You aren’t responsible to atone for her. You are not like her. You are better.” She let her hands fall from his face, and he felt their absence acutely. But then she took his hands, pressing the flesh and metal of them into hers — and she was strength and heart and fire, and he could no sooner unmake the intense, unwavering affection that flared in him than he could force winter to turn into spring. 

“I know you miss her. That you love her. But you’ve been happy here, with me. I know you have. I won’t let you throw it all away, just like that.”

He felt weak — impossibly weak, standing before her; unmasked. Unhorsed, like a green knight at a tourney. 

“Who else can stop her?” His voice was anemic — unsteady against her certain tone. “She is mad. She will stop at nothing. _You don’t know her,”_ and anger flared in him now. “You don’t know the lengths she will go, the things she will do. Daenerys has dragons, yes, but Cersei…Cersei has all the terrible, rabid power of a woman scorned and spited, her whole life, by everyone…”

He tried to choke back a sob but failed. He’d scorned her, too, and then he’d had the audacity to find love, even happiness, without her. He’d had the nerve to decide he could cast Cersei aside, cleave to his warrior lover instead, for the rest of his days.

Brienne pulled him against her chest, and he wept — for Cersei, for himself, for her. For the whole damn, bloody, cruel world. His inability to just die and be done with it. 

He would have, too, in the Long Night, if Brienne had not been there to fight with him. She’d had his back, kept him alive (and he her, he wanted to think), and now she held him, loved him, even as the deep, cruel claws of his sister threatened to tear apart everything they were — everything they could ever be. 

“I don’t want her to die,” he whispered against her neck, and it felt like a last confession — because he’d been certain it would come to that. And she was right — Brienne was right. He knew it would be his death, too. 

“I know,” she said, without hesitation. “It’s why we should go together. Let me help you.” 

He scoffed and pulled back to look at her. “You really think, the two of us showing up together, in front of her, will make matters right?”

“I’m not asking you to bring me before her, declare me your lover. I’m asking you to let me be your second sword. The city is in chaos. The road there will no-doubt be precarious. We will go, I will help you get there. I will help you get to her, and you will get her out. You will convince her to lay down her cause. To leave Westeros. She can live a good, full life in Essos.”

He was shaking his head, even before she finished. “There’s no way. She won’t give up — will never give in. And, even if she agreed to leave, what if…” he hesitated, trying to form the words. Trying to disclose fully to her, the turmoil in his heart. “What if I…what if I can’t…”

“If you decide to go with her, then that is your choice. Which is also why I must go with you — because I will remind you, to my last, that it _is_ a choice. And I will love you no less, whatever your path.”

He shook his head. _How could she be real?_

“I don’t deserve you.” 

She pressed her lips together in a smile. “That’s utter nonsense, Jaime Lannister. You are deserving of love, and everything else besides.” The moon had risen above the trees outside the gate and its light glinted off her hair, her eyes; a tableau in his vision. _Gods above…_ “And I am nothing to deserve or not — I am just me, and I want you to live. And I want you to be free. To be happy. What else could love be — truly — at its core?”

He had only ever known something else, masquerading as love but wrapped in slavish chains, which he wore still, heavy around his neck. He didn’t know if he’d be able to break free of them for good — and she didn’t know either. But she would walk beside him, into the hell that had been his life, for the chance.

He reached up to touch her face. _She was a wonder._

He pulled her to him suddenly, and kissed her. _It had not been the last time, hours ago. And this wouldn’t be the last time, either._

He was utterly terrified and filled with dread at the path before them, but in her arms, her lips pressed to his, her body solid and strong against him, he could feel other things, too — hope. Desire. The brushing dream... _of a future that he wanted._

And love — the kind that could save him if he let it. 

_ He kissed her and held on to her as if his life depended on it, because, he was fairly certain, it did.  _

* * * * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * * * *  
> I wish we could all take a writing holiday. Give up work and other responsibilities for a while and just... _indulge_ in these dreamy worlds we've all got going in our heads!! 
> 
> I am mad for the time I get to spend on my J/B WIPs, but there is just not enough of it! This next part is a bit of fluff, but also just trying to contend with how Jaime might feel with his course suddenly and sharply altered. Nope, my dear, you are staying with the woman who is good for you, and that's that! ;) 
> 
> I've got about half of the next part written, but I know myself and my schedule a bit too well to say it'll be finished and posted in a timely fashion. I will try my best. (Probably next bit on _Promise_ will come first...)
> 
> * * * * *

Back in her room — _their room_ — Jaime found himself feeling awkward. 

They’d taken his horse back to the stables together, wordless as he unloaded his things and she undid the straps of the tack. 

The animal had shifted and grunted as they’d pulled the saddle away, no doubt confounded by his return to confinement. (Jaime had stroked his neck consolingly, feeling similarly disoriented.)

It was the Hour of Ghosts when they made their way back inside, and he felt a little bit like an apparition, himself, crossing the threshold of their room. 

The fire still burned abundantly, and he watched as she went right to the hearth, put her hands out — and she was shivering slightly, the cold catching up with her; the rise of her blood that had carried her out to find him, deal with him, coming back down.

He hadn’t expected to return here — ever — and it felt wrong somehow, making himself right back at home. He stood dumbly near the door, thinking about it. Still holding his wares.

The silence stretched, punctuated by the crackling fire and the sound of Jaime’s own breathing, short and uneasy, and then she turned — took him in and narrowed her eyes.

_“Here.”_ She stepped to him and pulled the bundle from his arms, deposited it against the wall into a semi-neat pile. Then she crossed back to him and began working at his leathers, untying and pushing away the layers that had marked him bound for the road. He felt a bit foolish as he realized just how much he needed her to do these things that physically _placed_ him back in the room.

“We should get some rest,” she said, and he nodded as she continued undressing him — helped, sort of, pulling an arm out here, shrugging out of a layer there. When she had him down to his lightest layer she gathered up the discarded pieces and laid them on a chair, then drew off her own cloak — and it was just a thin layer of nightclothes beneath. She’d rushed out into the cold after him, of course — and he was the piss at the bottom of a swamp; worse than the worst. 

And, plaguing — _What if she hadn’t reached him in time?_ He’d be two dozen miles away by now. More than that, even.

She stretched and took a deep breath, exhaled, then looked back at him and held out her hand. 

“Come to bed.”

A simple enough command. A few easy steps and he would be right back where he was. _Before_. 

Just a few hours ago, he’d been lying there, staring up at the ceiling, thoughts fixed on the urgent path before him. 

He’d waited longer than he had planned to leave, large stretches of time passing as he focused in on the steady sound of her breathing — because (he’d told himself) he had to be sure. She was a sound sleeper when she felt safe in her surroundings, and it had been a while now since either of them had been restless with nightmares, but he couldn’t risk her waking.

He’d already put some of his things out with his horse and everything else had been carefully situated so he could grab it easily. When he finally rose from the bed, she didn’t stir — not even a little bit…

Jaime shifted on his feet and ran his hand through his hair. He was…the worst. “Brienne, I…” Her hand fell, but her eyes were soft. _“I’m so sorry.”_

She stepped closer and this time wrapped her hand around his. “I know,” she said, and pulled him in the direction of the bed. He stepped with her, then stopped — looked down at the floor, then back up at her face. 

“Brienne…I …” He shook his head, fumbling for words. “You…I think…you…should really be very angry with me.”

She regarded him for a moment, her eyes fixed. “What purpose would that serve right now?” 

“Well…for one thing, it would make me feel better.”

She laughed; a single, short burst. “You _want_ me to be angry with you?”

“Yes.”

“To make you feel better?”

He nodded. 

Her cheeks rose, a small, sly smile spreading across her face. “I can think of better ways to do that.” 

Her eyes were full, somehow emanating virtue and heat simultaneously, and he laughed, appreciating. 

She wasn’t going to let him brood or slink deep into melancholy — wasn’t going to let him wallow in blame and self-recrimination. _No;_ she was going to pull him into her bed and be with him, and he could feel some of his dark cloud lifting at the divine simplicity of it. He shook his head and drew near to her. 

“You are a singular woman.” 

She arched back slightly and eyed him firmly. “I am also a rather _chilly_ woman, and I would like for you to crawl under these covers with me and make me warm.” 

This time he obeyed. 

But as he climbed into the bed and curled up behind her, pulled her against his chest, he couldn’t help but to think about how close he’d come to giving this up — and how truly he’d convinced himself that he had to. 

It had been _so_ _easy,_ sliding back into a life where his choices weren’t really his own. Where the narratives of old shaped the nature of his existence; his fate, pre-written.

For all intents and purposes, he’d transformed from a man living to a man dying, and it was frightening to think how quickly it had happened. 

She had known it all and then some — and it was his future she’d thought of more than her own when she had bid him to stay and take a different course. When she’d asked him (for not the first time) to live. 

He’d never known that kind of love before, and he felt… _small,_ almost, in the face of it.

No; that was the wrong word. It wasn’t _small_ that he felt, it was unworthy. Undeserving. 

He sighed against her neck, weary from the weightiness of it. 

She turned over to look at him, careful to keep his arms about her. They were still for a moment, staring at each other, eyes searching, until she brought a hand up to brush his face. 

His chest tightened as he thought about how so few people would guess her capable of such tenderness. How he might be the only one to have ever truly known it…and how he had very nearly thrown it all away. 

“Think no more on it tonight.” Her fingers moved to trace his lips. “We will have a thousand miles to talk about it.” 

She was gentle grace in living form; serenity personified. He kissed at her fingers, letting her warmth wash over him.

“More than a thousand,” he said. Then, shifting: “Are you certain you’ll be able to stand it? I can be quite dreadful on the road, as you’ll remember.” 

She eyed him. “Perhaps I will have to put you in chains again.”

“Hmm. It’s quite possible.” He nuzzled at her neck, breathing in the scent of her — letting it soothe his senses. “I think I would like it much better this time.”

She tilted her head back, fully exposing the familiar, faint lines on the side of her neck — marks of their shared past—and he kissed the soft skin there. “Mmm…me, too,” she said, her voice humming in her throat. 

He drew back to look at her, some combination of amusement and utter lust filling him. “Now that is a picture I will not get out of my head any time soon.” 

She laughed — more of a giggle, really — no-doubt picturing it, too. 

“Tell me,” he said, enraptured. “Some night hence, you will do just that? Tie me up and have your absolute way with me?” 

She snickered and blushed ever slightly, but her eyes were lit with ardor. _She liked the idea just as much as he did…_

He pulled her close and they settled against each other, stilling with deep breaths and a growing awareness of their exhaustion. 

An arduous road awaited them — twists and turns he couldn’t even begin to guess. There would be _much_ for them to contend with.  

But _they would._

By the grace of the Gods — but mostly by the grace of her — they would.

* * * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * * * * *  
> Oh, my <3\. I want this so much for them. 
> 
> Ever slow in updating, but steady on. Thank you for reading!
> 
> * * * * *

Jaime Lannister did not do _nervous_ very well. 

He might be “apprehensive” before a battle, but it was a different thing entirely when accompanied by surging adrenaline and the anticipation of swinging a sword with authority. He may have been “anxious” in his younger years when summoned to his father’s room, not knowing what the elder Lannister might have in store for him, but he had learned at an early age to channel those feelings into an air of confidence, and — face firm, chin high — he was self-assure if he decided he was. 

This was different. 

This was the roller coaster of leaving and then not leaving, giving up then giving in, and, now that they had decided they would stay together — now that he desperately, critically needed it to happen — this was him facing the fact that they might not be able to, and he was…not okay.

Morning had come quickly, and although they both could have slept in through the better part of it, she’d gotten them up like a normal day. 

Awake, waiting, Jaime paced about their room — though he could only take about three steps in the small space before he had to turn. He paused briefly when Brienne returned from fetching breakfast, but being still did not abide so he quickly set to circling again. 

For her part, Brienne sat and ate and watched him fidgeting about. He would either stop soon, or he’d start talking, and — 

“What if she won’t let you leave?” He turned to pace in her direction. 

“Jaime. Sit,” she gestured to the other chair. “Eat something.” 

He paced on, not missing a beat, and his speech increased in intensity. 

“If you can’t go then we’re right back where we were, and I have to go, and you have to stay — which I know is not _really_ where we were, but…” He turned again. “I just don’t know what our other options would be, if it came to that and —”

“Jaime. Sit. _Please_.” Her tone was firm and commanding and it stopped him in his tracks. He gaped at her. 

She smiled. He sat. 

She waited until he took a bite of the breakfast meat before she spoke.

“I believe Lady Sansa will give me leave. I think we can make a good case for the strategy behind it — the benefit of acting covertly in the south.” She took a bite of bread and he took the opening to start talking again, but she silenced him with a raised hand. She chewed; swallowed. “It she does not agree to let me go, we will come up with another plan.”

“I can’t think what that would be,” he said, worry pulling at the contours of his face. 

“We will cross that bridge if we have to.” She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. 

She’d seen Jaime at his worst — broken, battered; teetering on the edge of life itself — but this kind of raw anxiety, unaccompanied by wit, unassociated with the onslaught of battle, was atypical. 

Of course, nothing about the last many hours had been typical, and truly, they were in uncharted territory. 

She drew his gaze up, held his eyes unflinchingly, and brought her other hand to clasp his firmly between both of hers. 

He drew in a breath — let her silent, steady strength wash over him — and then he sighed, letting go some of his tension. 

“I still might wear a hole in the floor while you are away.” 

She pressed her lips into a tight smile, pulled her hands back to her breakfast. “You’re coming with me.”

He scoffed, dubious. “Do you _really_ think that’s a good idea? Your lady may tolerate me well enough, but she does not _like_ me…”

“I do, and it is. And she likes you better than she used to.”

“Right. I’m sure she approves of me… _bewitching_ you.”

Brienne laughed — a full, hearty burst of amusement she could not contain. “Oh, is _that_ what happened?”

He eyed her soberly. “It’s probably what people _think_ happened…”

She tried for a moment to adopt his seriousness on the matter, but just…couldn’t. 

“Do I look like a woman who is easily ‘bewitched’?” She smiled, sanguine, though he was clearly unmoved. She sighed, shifting. “Besides, Jaime, what does it really matter? What we are asking for will help the cause. If Sansa sees other reasons we are doing it, if she thinks I am going with you because I would _prefer to keep you from dying,_ or because _I love you_ — “bewitched” or not… It doesn’t invalidate what we are trying to do. It doesn’t change the outcome. We will focus on that.”

Jaime stilled, wordless. After a moment, Brienne went back to eating her breakfast and he watched. She didn’t know what was going on in his head, or what other worries he would need to air, but she would contend with whatever it was on a full stomach.

“Alright,” he said at last. 

She looked up from her meal — his features had softened. He went back to eating his own food, then, between bites — 

“And I love you, too.” 

* * * * *

Standing before Lady Sansa, a sensible distance between them, Brienne and Jaime made their case. Or, more accurately, Jaime stood, statuesque, as Brienne made their case, carefully outlining their plan — emphasizing how it would serve for the good of all. How they could avoid another battle, spare countless lives, pave the way for the city to be taken peacefully… 

When Sansa had questions, expressed doubts about the likelihood of their success, Brienne was ready to dialog these things through. Jaime was silent as they went back and forth — questions and answers, opinions and concerns, and he tried to think of what he could say to help, then —

“Any number of people could accompany you, Jaime Lannister.” Sansa had turned to look at him. “There are plenty of skilled men who could help you infiltrate the city and depose your sister.” She eyed him firmly — and he balked _ever slightly_ as he saw her mother’s steely eyes glaring at him. “Why should it be Brienne who goes with you? She is a knight of my house — why should I send her off on this… _endeavor_ with you, which may result in her harm or worse?”

Brienne started to speak, all of the strategic reasons she should go at the ready, but Jaime cut her off.

“Because I love her,” he said, and not at all meekly. 

Brienne’s jaw dropped and she turned to stare at him, dumbstruck. His eyes were fixed on Lady Sansa — he even took a step toward her as he continued his speech. 

“…Because we are a _force_ and we are _meant_ to be together. Because she is my everything, my guiding star, and I need her like I need the air to breathe…”

He sounded like he was about to fall to the ground at her feet, and Brienne’s heart pounded furiously at his mad display. She couldn’t even look at Lady Sansa. _Gods, what must she be thinking of this? “Jaime…”_ she tried, but her voice was anemic compared to his and he ignored her so thoroughly, she might as well not have spoken at all. He was pure theater, and it was like he had cut out his own heart and was showing it around the room with an unchecked, manic gusto.

“…Because there’s no one else who can see me through this, and if there is _one thing_ I can ever do to make a difference… _this is it_ …”

His voice wavered on that last, and Brienne started to interject, preparing to turn the conversation back to sense and reason — physically shove him aside if she had to — but just as quickly as she opened her mouth to speak, his voice rang out, returned to full strength…

“… And, because…she is my deliverance and my salvation, the reason I am alive. Parted from her _I am_ _less_. And because we are two halves of the same sword, bonded souls, and _I love her_ more than anything in this world. Because we fought and survived the coldest horrors of the world together and… _we can do this_ …” His voice trailed off and he took a breath before speaking again, this time in a more balanced tone. “And…if any harm should come to her, I will, if at all possible, avoid offing myself so that you can have the pleasure of doing it, yourself…”

He looked back at Brienne for the first time since he’d started talking — tilted his head slightly as he took in her flummoxed demeanor and then sort of shrugged. Brienne chanced a glance at Sansa; she was regarding Jaime, eyebrows raised, waiting, it appeared, to see if he had anything more. Her face was soft, though; Brienne couldn’t guess what she was thinking. 

When Sansa turned to look at her, Brienne could feel the crimson heat in her face and she had to fight to hold the younger woman’s gaze. 

“Lady Brienne.” Her tone was even, revealing nothing. “I can’t say I believe _Jaime Lannister_ a worthy match for you.” She looked at Jaime, then back at Brienne. “But he claims — rather boisterously — to love you." Her smile was...knowing? Amused? Brienne couldn't tell. "Do you love him, too?”

Brienne drew in a breath, let it out. She had not planned to come before her lady to discuss her relationship with Jaime — had rather hoped it would be a side note, if anything at all, to their discussion about traveling south. Lady Sansa knew they had taken up together after the long night, but this public declaration of their feelings was… _a lot._ Especially when they should be focusing on what they were seeking to accomplish, not their status as lovers...

She looked at Jaime. His expression had markedly changed — his brow was furrowed, his lips drawn thin. He looked back at her now with an almost raw vulnerability — and then, in the flash of a moment, she understood.

She turned back to Sansa. “I do, my lady.” 

Jaime let out the breath he must have been holding and Brienne could feel the relief emanating from him, palpable. 

_This was something entirely new for him_.

It was new to Brienne, too, but she’d never had a lover before. For Jaime…his relationship with Cersei had always been something they’d kept hidden. To have someone say out loud, in front of him and another soul, that they _love him_ … Well, it was entirely possible no one had _ever_ actually loved him openly before. That Brienne was the first person to ever say it like this. 

Moved by a sudden, overwhelming tenderness for him, Brienne took a step to the side and captured Jaime's hand in her own. It wasn’t enough, though, so she drew closer to him still, and they wrapped their arms around each other — looked at each other, breathing, for a moment, then turned back to Sansa. A mild smile was spread across her face as she looked at them. 

“And Podrick would remain here in your stead?”

“He would my lady. He is an honorable man and a tested fighter, as you know; he will do right by you.” 

Sansa was silent for what seemed like a long moment, and the knights-turned-lovers waited, still but for their arms more firmly pulling each other closer. 

“I give you my leave, Brienne. You may go with him and undertake the task you have described to me. But — you must come back. I do not release you forever. And Jaime…” she glared at him adamantly. “I will hold you personally responsible if anything should happen to her.” 

“As will I,” he said.

* * * * *


	4. Chapter 4

_A tent._

Jaime stared at the tightly wrapped bundle Brienne had added to their pile of supplies. So simple an item, but he hadn’t even thought about it when he’d packed to set out on his own. 

In fact, in retrospect, he’d been rather poorly provisioned, and probably would have been lucky to make it more than a few days without freezing to death. Haste, stupidity, the general stupor he’d been in… Sure, he might have gotten by, sleeping in caves if he found them, abandoned structures if he dared, but certain shelter from the elements (not to mention a warm companion to share the space with) was a much better plan, indeed. 

Jaime left Winterfell in the early evening, unceremoniously, as planned — his load light; just out for a ride. Due south to the woods then another mile to the southeast on a lightly trodden path, he made his way to the rendezvous point, recounting the directions Brienne had given him. Long shadows mixed with the golden light of late-day as he rode amongst the trees — peak beauty of a northern forest in winter. The quiet tranquility betrayed the larger instabilities of the world, and some part of him fantasized about staying — sheltering in the north; forgetting all else. 

He spotted Brienne’s towering form in a small clearing between the trees ahead. She was loading supplies onto her horse, pulling from the stash Podrick had brought out for them earlier in the day. 

They’d left separately, through different gates, taking different paths to their meeting spot. Their mutual absence would be noticed soon enough, their destination maybe guessed, but they’d do all they could in the meantime to avoid being the subject of any news that might travel south. 

Brienne turned at his approach and watched him ride in. Her horse shifted, excited, it seemed, at the incoming, familiar companion-animal. 

There was something oddly exciting about meeting like this — secretly, in the woods, with an uncertain journey ahead — and Jaime felt rush of heady energy as he dismounted and locked eyes with his traveling partner. She smiled warmly, and he abruptly closed the gap between them and kissed her firmly and fully, stealing her breath. It was _thank you_ and _I love you_ and _why did I ever imagine I could do this alone,_ and he might have continued conversing this way for some time, but after a moment she put her hands on his chest and gently pushed away. 

Her eyes were affectionate and knowing, but also firm.

“We need to make some good progress tonight,” she said in answer to his slightly raised eyebrows. “Help me with the supplies?”

She was right, of course.

They made quick work loading the rest of their things, and once they were both atop their horses, Jaime caught her gaze. 

“You’re sure about this?” 

It was an absurdly late hour to be asking, and for a moment he thought she might laugh out loud at him, but Jaime was unblinking. Everything had been in constant motion since the morning; they’d really not had much time to talk, the two of them, alone, since breakfast. 

Their horses were animated — eager — as she eyed him. 

“We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” She shook the reins of her horse lightly and trotted forward; her final answer. 

Jaime followed and, single-file, they made their way along the narrow trail, weaving among the trees. The light wood of the birches looked almost illuminated in the lingering sunlight — bright pillars set against the darker, taller oaks and tamaracks. A scattering of evergreens made dark patches of shadow, their full boughs gently secluding the forest.

They picked up the pace once the trees thinned out, and here with the day’s direct sunlight, the snowpack was firmer and easier to negotiate. 

It would be a mix of forests and clearings as they avoided the main roads for now. Brienne was decently familiar with the extended lands around Winterfell and they would remain within those bounds until at least tomorrow. 

Fortune had found them good weather and a favorable moon phase — a waning gibbous that would rise soon, providing a dim, silvery illumination after the daylight faded.

There was an elegant, simple bliss in riding, and Jaime felt himself relax as the rhythm of their forward motion captured and soothed his senses. For now at least, their task was straightforward, and there was not a pressing need to think ahead to the other end of things. 

In fact, here, right now, as the setting sun turned high, icy clouds into ribbons of orange and pink and purple, things were possibly as perfect as they had ever been. _Right now,_ they were free, the two of them, _together,_ and the world was sky and trees and birds and snowpack — and all of the steady, simple facets of the world that made living glorious and real. 

Glancing up ahead he could tell Brienne was in a similar state. She sat tall and straight, but her shoulders were relaxed and she glanced about with what he was certain was grateful affection — for the land, the horses, their motion, their lives. It was an almost dreamy state, really, gliding across the landscape like this, and perhaps no wonder that the mind tended to wax poetic over it. 

Their pace slowed as the sky darkened, the vibrant colors of sunset giving way to deep navy and then black, but the horses adjusted quickly. They drew a bit more closely to each other, horses and their riders, and fell into a new, comfortable rhythm.

Some time later they took a break to stretch and feed the animals, but they didn’t linger. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so past midnight that they agreed to stop for the night — shelter and rest before fatigue got the better of them. 

The night air was crisp and their small tent, pitched beneath a stand of tall hemlocks, was a welcome respite after they shed their outermost riding clothes. 

A light breeze played at the fabric of the shelter and they could occasionally hear the horses, tied up nearby, but the world was mostly muffled silence as they tucked in against each other and drew the blankets close. Sleep came quickly — the stillness of the cold season and the soothing warmth of their bodies pressed close after their long hours awake bringing an easy, deep slumber. 

Jaime didn’t open his eyes again until well after the dawn... ...

In the burgeoning light of the new day, Jaime shifted, careful not to move too suddenly or too much. Brienne slept soundly still, blankets tucked up around her face. He turned onto his side and stared at her candidly — enjoying the rare moment when he could. 

She would always be young relative to him, but she looked even younger than usual now, immersed in sleep, the planes and edges of her face soft and unburdened. It was easy to imagine what she must have looked like as a child and he thought about how her wide blue eyes would have gazed at the world back then, before she’d lived and seen so much. 

It was strange — it was hard for him to picture Cersei as a child, even though they’d actually lived those years together. Surely at some point his sister had looked upon the world with curiosity and wonder — with the innocence of hope — but all he could see now when he thought of her were cold, calculating eyes and a trembling, disfiguring fury.

He wanted to think she’d been something different once, but the truth was, she had _always_ been cruel. 

And he’d been dumb and blind and selfish — obsessed with the softness of her body bending beneath him; drunk on tender adorations in the shadows behind closed doors, soft whispers and frantic touches distorting his entire world.

_How he had lived for those moments_ — convinced himself it was _everything_. Now it felt like…deceit? Manipulation? Desperation? 

He wasn’t sure, even now, but he knew what it _wasn’t_. 

_It wasn’t love as love should be._

Brienne shifted beside him — dreaming, maybe.

He drew his hand up from beneath the blankets and brushed a lock of hair from her face, the tips of his fingers just glancing against her skin. 

_(I’m going with you.)_

He thought of her standing in the courtyard at Winterfell, confronting him — arms folded. Posture straight and tall. Resolved, even through her heartache. 

She was braver than he would ever be. _Steadfast_ — a pillar. And here she was, following him into hell. 

It would be easier if she hated him. 

It was a pitiable thought at its core. If she hated him, he could do _this one thing_ and be done with it. Put Tywin Lannister’s eldest children out of their misery, once and for all — and he did rather perversely enjoy the notion of throwing himself from the highest window of the Red Keep, Cersei in tow. Shattering her grip on the Seven Kingdoms forever — along with their bodies.

But lying under the blankets, staring at Brienne, his thoughts took a different turn. Watching her lips — slightly parted — and the gentle rise and fall of the blankets as as she steadily breathed, he couldn’t help but to smile to himself as he thought back to the days when she _did_ thoroughly despise him — every glowering, indignant inch of her. Back when he was _Kingslayer_ _(and oh how the word would flare from her lips!)_ and she was _stupid, ugly wench,_ and hardly a minute could pass without him reminding her of it. 

_And then._

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment things changed (and he’d tried), but it hadn’t taken long for the edges to soften. Looking back he was certain he loved her painfully early on. That even through their shared disdain, the endless jabs and taunts, she’d imprinted herself upon his soul in a way that was immutable. 

Years later, when he could finally, fully look at it — this strange, _utterly luminous,_ tucked-away part of himself — he knew without question, it was the heart of a life he desperately wanted. Suddenly he’d understood, with aching clarity, the reason she was always appearing in his dreams. Why his waking thoughts so often drifted to her, painting her likeness in his mind’s eye even as the miles and months divided them. He could remember even still, the particular heaviness in his chest — the raw anguish as revelation mixed with fear when he realized he might be too late...

Brienne drew in a longer breath and shifted and Jaime watched as her eyes fluttered open. She groaned a bit — the ground was not the most comfortable sleeping surface — then turned her head to look at him. Her brow furrowed. 

“How long have you been staring at me?” Her voice was groggy, but alert enough for an edge. 

He pretended to think about it for a moment, his lips pressed into a sly smile. “Ages,” he said. 

“You could have woken me,” she said — then, turning onto her side to face him more fully — “You’re very strange, you know.” 

“I know.”

Her expression softened and then she snickered. “Well, as long as you’ve no delusions about yourself…” 

She stretched, arching her back then relaxing it with a deep sigh — but she stiffened as the blankets slipped slightly and stab of chilly air hit her. She shivered audibly, then quickly tucked back in against him.

He pulled her close. “Let’s not get up yet.” 

“Mmm…” He felt her exhale at his neck. “Okay.”

They were still for a moment, huddled against each other, breathing in their shared warmth — until she slid herself up a bit and pressed her hips into his, aligning them _just so,_ and…

He was _mad_ for the way she so often wanted him in the morning — and elated now at the familiar, libidinous gestures that meant recent events hadn’t changed this part of things…

He shifted his weight and rolled on top of her, growling primally as he pressed himself against her and felt the heat between her legs…

The day could wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****
> 
> The pace will pick up a bit in the next chapter as they continue the journey south. To my mind, they've still a lot to reckon with between them -- and King's Landing looms large, of course. But these two fools love each other to bits, even if one of them is a bit dim at times. ;) 
> 
> Anyway -- let me know what you think? I'm for shit with updates (writing time so rare these days), but I will keep with this for sure. Thank you so much for reading!! <3


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